Drunk Dial
by punkhale
Summary: Stiles was drunk. Not even a little drunk, he was so drunk. The drunkest. Hella. Lots. (rated m for quite a bit of swearing and mentions of masturbation)


**notes:** Not beta'd so any mistakes are mine and you should point them out to me so I can fix them. Also, I swear I am working on Moon Fever, I'm just in a rut with it. I'm sorry, I'm trash.

* * *

Stiles was drunk. Not even a little drunk, he was _so_ drunk. The drunkest. Hella. Lots.

There was an almost empty bottle of Jack on the coffee table next to him and he was laying on the couch, staring at the slightly water-stained ceiling of his living room, the first Iron Man movie playing the background. The night had started out as some well-deserved alone time while his dad was out of town. Pizza, video games, super hero movies, and a little bit of booze.

A little bit of booze had turned into a little bit more booze. And then he'd thought about Derek. Fucking Derek. Well, he hadn't thought about _fucking_ Derek.

Goddammit, _now_ he was. He groaned and flung an arm dramatically over his eyes. That was not a mental image he needed. He did _not_ need to think about Derek's perfectly muscled body or his stupidly glorious ass. And he really didn't need to think about what it would all look like naked and underneath him.

He let out a string of slurred curses. This wasn't fair. He didn't even register on Derek's radar most of the time. And the guy was probably straight, which was ridiculous considering his track record with women. He should really… he should really… not… do that.

"What?" he asked himself out loud, which only made him laugh and roll off the couch. God he was so fucked up. He wished Scott were with him. Scott would take his mind off of Derek.

Not like _that_. Wellmaybelikethat. No, he decided, that would be weird. Also, Allison. She didn't seem the type to share. Unless it was with Isaac. But that was fair Isaac had these cheekbones…

No, he didn't need to add Isaac to the list of people he was sexually frustrated over. Lydia and Derek were enough.

He paused in the middle of his endeavour to get up off the floor. When was the last time he'd jerked off to Lydia anyways? He couldn't even remember.

"Well, I never thought I'd be over that," he said to himself, smacking his arm on the table as he launched himself off the floor. Which… wasn't the best idea.

He lost his balance and didn't even bother to stop himself from falling back down onto the floor, head colliding with the arm of the couch. What he wouldn't give for werewolf agility sometimes. But werewolves couldn't get drunk could they?

"Fuck that," he declared. That wasn't a trade up he was prepared to agree to. Even if it would make him better at lacrosse and probably make him super hot and likable and maybe make Derek notice him more.

Derek. Derekderekderek.

"Derek," he said out loud, rolling it around on his tongue. "Derekderekdekderkekkkkk."

He groped around the coffee table for his phone, which he vaguely recalled putting somewhere near the half empty pizza box. The pizza which was now cold. Which he only knew because he'd just stuck his hand in it.

"Motherfucker," he swore, licking the grease off his fingers before continuing his quest for the mobile device. He let out a small victory whoop when he found it and struggled with unlocking the damn thing. What was his passcode again? Not that apparently. What was _that _passcode for then?

_No Stiles,_ he thought to himself. _Stay focused. Call Scott._

He wasn't sure why exactly he had a sudden need to call his best friend at one in the morning, but he was determined to do it. Why wasn't Scott with him anyways? They usually did this movie and pizza thing together. _Allison_, he reminded himself. _He's probably fucking Allison._

"Bastard," he muttered, finally unlocking the phone and bringing up his contacts list. "Having sex when I can't even, fuck, get Derek to talk to me for like, like _five_ minutes. Fiiiive minutesssss, 's too much to asssk?"

He hit the call button and brought the phone to his ear, still half laying on the floor, one leg propped up on the couch for no reason he could discern. Why was he on the floor again?

"Oh!" he cried when he heard the ringing stop and someone saying "hello?" on the other end.

"Hey, hey, okay, so I know you're like, having _aaaaaloooone_ time and like sexy stuff, but did you… hey, did you know… I love you man. No, that's not why I called. I dun love you. Well! I do, not like that y'know? You know. NO, I… oh god, dude, I love Derek? What, oh fuck, I never said that out loud b'fore. He doesn't even… even talk to me, even like me. He _avoids_ me. Why do I even… damn. Hey, don't tell, okay? Shhhh." With that Stiles dissolved into a fit of laughter, which turned into a brief fit of coughing that had him reaching for his drink. Surely the solution was more whiskey and coke.

"Stiles?" asked the voice on the other end of the line. He got the vague impression that the voice had said it a couple of times now. But it didn't sound like Scott.

"Yes?" he asked, slamming the now empty glass back down on the table with more force than he intended. He stared at it for a moment, trying to determine if he'd cracked it. Satisfied he hadn't he turned his attention back to his phone.

"Stiles are you okay?" It was Derek. Had Derek called him? But Derek wouldn't call him. He couldn't remember. Hadn't he called Scott? Was Derek with Scott? No that didn't make any sense either. Fuck, his head hurt.

"You're not, you're not... who are you? No, you're Derek, I knew that. Right? Yeah, okay. How'r you? Did you want somethin?"

Derek blinked. "Stiles you called me."

"I did? Oh look at that, I did. Wait, no, I called Scott. Are you sure you're not Scott?"

Derek rolled his eyes even though Stiles couldn't see it. Stiles had that effect on him. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Not... not, I mean some... a lot. A whole bag" he replied.

Derek blinked. "I… a bag of what?"

"Dicks."

"A bag of dicks?"

"What the fuck are you talking about dicks for Derek?" Stiles asked, which was followed by a bout of drunken giggling. Derek huffed.

"Was there a reason for this call?"

"I don't remember calling you, I called Scott and I... and then here you are! Well not _here-_"

"Stiles, that was me, you called me and... said some stuff. But you're drunk, you should go to sleep."

Stiles was silent for a moment and then. "Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Oh noooooo."

"Go to sleep Stiles, we'll talk tomorrow."

"Oh god," Stiles groaned. "This is a nightmare."

"Don't forget to drink some water before you go to bed." And with that he hung up. He stared down at the phone in his hand as if were some kind of alien device he'd never seen before.

What had just happened? Did Stiles really…?

"Fuck." He tossed the phone onto the couch and collapsed next to it, staring at the ceiling of his loft. Did Stiles really think he didn't like him? Well, he _did _avoid him, there was no denying that. But that was only because Stiles was so infuriatingly _attractive_ and he did this thing with his lips and Derek could never seem to keep his, ah, hormones under control when he was around. And he was always with Stiles while Scott or Isaac were also around. He didn't want _them_ to know. They already enjoyed picking on him far too much. He'd apparently stopped being scary awhile ago.

But Stiles… he didn't want Stiles to think he didn't like him. He liked him a lot. Maybe even loved him a little bit, in the way you love people who's saved your life and vice versa, as much as he was not keen to admit it.

"Fuck," he said again, burying his face in his hands. He needed to not think about this right now. Stiles had been drunk away. Really, really drunk. He might not even remember in the morning. Maybe then he could just pretend the whole thing had never happened. Yeah… yeah that sounded good.

He dragged himself back to bed and absolutely did not think about Stiles and his perfect fucking lips while jacking off. Nope, did not happen.

Stiles wished he didn't remember. Wished he hadn't taken Derek's advice and gotten himself a glass of water and gone to sleep. He wished he'd finished off the bottle of whiskey and passed out drunk on the couch. Surely then the whole ordeal would have been blacked out from his mind.

But no, the world was a cruel place for awkward, gangly eighteen year old boys with inconvenient crushes and no mouth filter.

So now he got to lay in his bed, nursing a massive hangover and replaying the horrible phone call in his head over and over again. If he got into his jeep now he could be two towns over in a half and hour. There was a nice motel he could stay at for a few days, weeks, maybe a month or two. Derek would surely forget all about him by then, right?

He pushed himself off the bed. He needed a shower. And a fucking aspirin, holy shit his head _hurt._ He dragged himself to the bathroom, clammering around in the medicine cabinet for some kind of headache medication. He finally found a promising looking bottle in the back, but when he picked it up it was empty.

A search through his father's medicine cabinet yielded the same result. He groaned. Now he was going to have to go _out_. Into the _world._ He begrudgingly pulled on a pair of jeans, and a clean t-shirt, spritzed himself with some cologne so he didn't smell completely like booze and b.o., and shoved his feet into his sneakers. Driving sounded like the worst idea in the universe, but the closest store was at least a mile away. Walking a mile sounded like the second worst idea in the universe and would take longer.

He muttered some more, swearing and bemoaning his life, as he clambered into the jeep, gripping the steering wheel much tighter than necessary.

"Alright Stiles," he said to himself, "you can do this."

He started the engine, took a few breaths, and pulled out of the driveway. The motion of the car really was not helping his hangover at all and he knew he was driving under the speed limit, not caring about the cars honking behind him. If one of the deputies pulled him over for driving too slow his dad would never believe it.

And fucking hell, why was the sun so bright? Why hadn't he brought shades? Did he even own shades? He couldn't remember. Maybe he'd get some of those at the store too.

He was grateful when he finally pulled into the parking lot, turning the engine off and just sitting for a few minutes, waiting for a slight wave of nausea to pass. He would not throw up, he would _not_.

The store was also heinously bright, but it had the medication, so he forgave it, meandering down the aisles until he finally found what he was looking for.

He was so distracted squinting at all the labels on the little bottles, trying to figure out which was best for a hangover, that he didn't hear the footsteps coming down the aisle towards him. And then suddenly there was a person next to him, clearing their throat, and fuck, it was Derek. Of course it was Derek. Whatever god was floating around up there in the sky clearly _hated_ Stiles and was playing the cruelest of games with him.

"Err, hi," Stiles said after an awkward moment of silence, Derek standing there with his hands in the pockets of his worn out jeans, shoulders slightly hunched in. He looked like he hadn't slept. Not that Stiles was one to judge, he didn't even want to know what kind of picture he was presenting right now.

He was suddenly self conscious about looking like a total wreck in front of Derek Hale. But that was stupid, he'd looked worse in front of him before. They battled supernatural beasties on a regular basis. A day not covered in blood in ripped clothing with bags under his eyes was considered a good day.

Except this day of course, this day was horrible.

"So, last night," Derek started, carding his fingers through his hair. Why did he have to look that good with messy hair? Stiles looked like a neurotic homeless person when he did that.

Derek didn't elaborate, instead glancing down at his feet, and then at the shelves and then back to his feet. He was acting weird. Really weird. No… he was acting _nervous_.

Stiles had no idea what to make of that.

"Look," he said, his voice a bit scratchy. He could really use some water. "About last night, I uh, was really drunk, and I didn't mean to call youandIthinkweshouldjustforgetaboutit."

Derek looked up from his feet and blinked at him. "Was that even words?"

Stiles sighed and picked a bottle up off the shelf. It looked right. "I have to go," he said, turning to walk away.

"Stiles."

He stopped, slightly mesmerized by the way Derek said his name. Derek didn't say his name out loud very often, almost never actually. Stiles turned to look back at him to find Derek watching him, a bit wide eyed, a strange expression on his face.

"I want to talk to you."

Stiles gulped. He was sure that was a terrible idea. The last thing he needed was an actual verbal rejection from Derek. He'd be perfectly content with just the avoiding. At least then he could pretend he had a shot when he fantasized about him at night.

"Here?" he asked, because he didn't want to have this conversation at all but also he didn't want to pass up the opportunity to be near Derek without the other man fleeing after five minutes. It was a vicious circle of desire.

"Did you drive here?" Derek asked, looking him up and down in a way that made him extremely self conscious. He gripped the bottle of aspirin closer to his chest and wished the floor would swallow him up. Hell didn't sound so bad, Satan was a nice guy, right?

The floor, however, did not turn into a portal he could conveniently jump through to escape his life (the bastard) so he nodded, shuffling his feet a bit.

"Let me drive you home then. You look like shit."

Stiles scrunched up his face in indignation. "Thanks for that self esteem boost, you really know how to make a guy feel good."

Derek did that thing with his eyebrows that he does, like he's not sure whether to roll his eyes or scrunch them together into a frowny face. It's fucking adorable, which is annoying because this is not the appropriate situation to be thinking about how goddamn cute this particular werewolf is. He's about to be "let down easy." He's never hated the term more.

Derek took his keys from him and waited for him to pay for his aspirin before leading them out of the store. And god_dammit_ Stiles had forgotten how bright it was out here. He'd meant to get sunglasses. But now they were at the jeep and he'd gone too far so he resigned himself to being blinded.

It was weird crawling into the passenger seat while someone else took the wheel. They were quiet during the short drive, Derek sometimes making an irritated grumbling noise when he went to shift and the gear stuck. Stiles got a slight bit of satisfaction out of this, as if the jeep were taking his side. Which was ridiculous because the vehicle was just really just a piece of crap and it was completely fair that Derek wouldn't know all the stupid little tricks to get it to behave.

"Are you sure you don't want to climb through a window?" Stiles asked when they arrived back at his house and were standing on his front steps. "I know how using doors traumatizes you."

Derek scowled and pushed past him into the house.

Stiles sighed and followed him in, bypassing where he'd sat down on the couch to go to the kitchen for a glass of water so he could take some of these pills. His head still hurt and now that he was back inside he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep for a week.

He took the meds, gripped the kitchen counter for a moment, and took a few deep breaths and tried to pretend like Derek couldn't hear him doing it from the living room. Stupid werewolf hearing.

He sighed, mentally steeled himself for what was to come, and left the safety of the kitchen, plopping down on the opposite end of the couch. The pizza box was still on the coffee table, a few pieces still stuck to the cardboard, the mostly empty bottle of whiskey beside it. Just looking at it made him feel a little woozy.

There was silence between the two of them, Derek staring at the black tv screen and Stiles inspecting his hands as if they were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. Finally Derek cleared his throat and said something.

"I don't dislike you Stiles."

Stiles jerked his head up at that, a little wide eyed. That really wasn't how he was expecting this conversation to start out.

"I… okay," Stiles replied lamely, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around confused.

Derek let out a frustrated huff. "I like you Stiles."

"Well, yeah, I mean, like would be the opposite of dislike so-"

"Stiles," Derek interrupted, and Stiles finally turned to face him. The look he was giving him was intense and he fought the urge to fidget under it.

"I like you," Derek repeated.

"That's… good. Good. I'm glad. That's, yeah, super good." Stiles was babbling, he knew he was, but he seemed incapable of stopping. He blamed it on the hangover.

Derek muttered something under his breath that Stiles didn't quite catch and then he was right next to him, their bodies only a centimeter shy of touching. Stiles had barely registered the movement. Werewolf speed plus fuzzy post-drinking brain were not the best combination of things when it came to be aware of your surroundings.

Not that it mattered because now Derek, _Derek Hale_, was hovering over him, eyes fixed on his, and there was so much emotion on his face that it kind of knocked the breath out of him.

"I. Like. You," he said forcefully, enunciating every word, and oh wow, okay, those were lips. Those were lips on his lips. Derek's _lips_ were touching his _own lips_.

Stiles wasn't sure what alternate universe he had stumbled into but he was 100% sure he was never leaving. You couldn't make him.

Despite the force in his words, Derek's mouth was gentle on his, tentative. Stiles realized he wasn't kissing back. He'd been too busy being in complete and utter _shock_. He rectified this immediately, leaning forward into the kiss, enthusiastically grabbing the front of Derek's henley and yanking him closer.

They sank into the couch, Derek pushing Stiles into the back cushions so they could both fit laying down, bodies crushed up against each other. Derek had curled himself around Stiles, leg thrown over his hip, cradling Stiles' face in one of his palms while they kissed. It was perfect, so fucking perfect. Whatever this was Stiles didn't want it to end, and if he was dreaming he never wanted to wake up. He was relatively sure Derek's kissing was enough to get him drunk all over again.

Which reminded him of his hangover. And the fact that his breath probably smelled of whiskey and pizza and other gross things. He pulled out of the kiss reluctantly, wrinkling his nose.

"I smell terrible and I know I taste terrible," he declared, which only made Derek laugh.

"You do."

Stiles made a noise like a wounded cat. "You're not supposed to say that."

"What am I supposed to say then?"

"I dunno," Stiles said, waving around the hand that wasn't pinned underneath them. "Something sweet."

Derek rolled his eyes and hugged him closer, arms making a cage around him. They should probably talk about this, whatever this was. But Derek was warm and he was tired, his brain still fuzzy and his limbs heavy from his alcohol binge. He laid his head on Derek's chest, breathing in the earthy, familiar scent of him, and closed his eyes. This was nice. He wanted this all the time. He wanted… wanted… but his brain had shut off as he fell into a pleasant sleep.


End file.
